


Nice Face

by Wyomingite_1890



Series: Killing Quentin [1]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018), The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Black Comedy, Drama, F/M, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22962769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wyomingite_1890/pseuds/Wyomingite_1890
Summary: FBI security officer Quentin Coldwater is bored in his job and yearns for a more exciting life. When a Colombian politician is murdered, Quentin is tasked with protecting the only witness and soon finds himself on a collision course with an assassin, Magician.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Killing Quentin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650223
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	1. Magician

**TORONTO** ****

Magician sits in a café, absentmindedly finishing the last of his Saskatoon Berry Pie. He enjoys eating local delicacies whenever he’s working. He’s been staring into space for a while when he suddenly notices the boy sitting at the table directly across from him. 

The boy blankly stares at him while eating a piece of pie, as well; his mother, apparently, preoccupied with something on her phone. Magician’s first reaction is annoyance. He wonders what could possibly be so interesting about him. 

The boy continues to stare. Magician stares back.

He’s beginning to get more annoyed when suddenly the boy shifts his gaze to the woman working behind the counter, too late in realizing he was actually enjoying the attention. Feeling competitive, he observes the woman behind the counter. She’s smiling. The boy’s smiling back. Magician smiles too, cocking his head for good measure. The boy’s smile finds its way back to him; he even giggles a little.

Satisfied, Magician glances down at his watch, reminding him of his impending task. He gets up to drop a few quarters in the tip jar before acknowledging the woman and making a swift break for the exit. On the way, he makes sure to get just close enough to the boy for his hand to gently knock the boy’s pie into his lap, taking pleasure in the boy's cry of surprise. 


	2. Quentin

**WASHINGTON, D.C.**

Quentin is screaming at the top of his lungs. He’d woken up, still groggy from the night before, to discover a sharp pain in his arms that rendered them unable to move. With his disoriented brain still unable to form words, all Quentin found he could do was scream. So he did. His howling quickly awakens Alice, who in no time is attempting to jostle him onto his back. 

“Quentin! Quentin,” she shrieks. “What is it?! What’s wrong?!” She is eventually successful and Quentin is on his back gasping for air. He gapes wide-eyed at his wife. 

“I fell asleep on both my arms.” 

“What? Oh, Jesus, Quentin -”, Alice plops back on the bed, rubbing her face. 

“Well, I’m sorry. It was really painful and scary,” he gripes, able to shift himself into a seated position now that feeling had returned to his arms. Quentin grimaces when he feels a sudden pain in his forehead. 

“Hung over,” Alice asks.   
“Yeah. What time did we leave last night?” 

“You were done right after you and Julia sang ‘Under Pressure’.” 

Quentin’s too out of it to feel a tinge of embarrassment. 

“Oh, God, my head hurts so much,” Quentin moans. 

“Well, luckily,” Alice says as she shifts herself closer to her husband, “we have the whole weekend to recover.” 

“Yeah, we do, Quentin smiles at her. The moment is interrupted by the sudden buzz of Quentin’s work phone. 

“Shit,” Quentin thinks. His good mood is gone. 

***

Quentin trudges into J. Edgar Hoover building, having thrown on a messy, unclean suit and downing a couple of Advil©. Moving through the halls of the cold, ugly building, he quickly spots Margo, lingering and munching on some pastry. He’ll be happier to see her if she’s as hung over as he is. 

“Happy Saturday, Quentin,” she exclaims, her trademark facetiousness creeping in. They begin making their way to the meeting room. He gives her a small smile before noticing the croissant in her hand. 

“Oh, did you get me a croissant?” 

“No, but do you want the rest of this?” 

“Of course I want the rest of tha-,” Quentin is unable to finish the sentence before Margo stuffs the remaining croissant into her mouth. She smiles coyly. Quentin just scowls. Her attitude is probably what’s befuddling him the most.

“How are you so perky? You left after I did.” 

“Well, I went for a run this morning and then I ate some coal. Apparently it’s a thing, I feel great!” Quentin is repulsed at the thought. 

“Alright,” Margo says, getting down to business, “from what I can eavesdrop on - a Colombian drug-trafficking politician’s been murdered in Toronto.” 

“Tragic,” Quentin deadpans, “Why are they crying about it here?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Was it a contract kill?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“You really earn your money, you know,” it’s Quentin’s turn to be facetious. 

“I have no idea what we do here,” Margo responds in kind. They turn another corner and come up to the doors of the meeting room. “Everyone’s in there with Josh.” 

“Oh, God,” Quentin doesn’t think he can deal with his boss this early in the morning. 

“Oh, my God,” Margo gasps, peering through the door’s small rectangular window, “it’s Henry Fogg.” 

“Who?” She guides Quentin’s gaze to a stately black man sitting next to Josh. 

“CIA Counterterrorism Center,” she explains condescendingly. “God, I’d fuck a cousin to work with that man.” 

“Well, I’ll put in a good word,” Quentin offers. 

“Please don’t,” Maro begs, “you’re the late one.” 

Quentin simply rolls his eyes and opens the door. He enters in the middle of some office chatter and eyes subtly turn to his certainly disheveled appearance. He greets Julia with a small smile before plopping down next to her. 

“Alright,” he hears Josh announce, “now that everyone is here, we can begin. I want to thank you all for coming in on such short notice, especially on a Saturday. Turns out murderous bastards don’t take the weekend off.” Josh’s attempt at a joke is met with stony silence. 

“Right,” Josh clears his throat has he begins again, “I want you all to direct your attention to Mr. Henry Fogg from the CIA Counterterrorism Center. Apologies, Mr. Fogg, they don’t normally look this sweaty. Apparently it was Julia’s birthday last night.” Josh’s jab is less than subtle. He must’ve been really upset about not being invited. 

“It was just a spontaneous thing,” Julia insists, hoping Josh will move on. 

“Good morning. There’s been an assassination in Toronto.” Apparently, Mr. Henry Fogg is someone who likes to get right to the point. Josh hands Julia and me a photo of a middle-aged latino man. “Rodrigo Bonilla was a Colombian politician seeking asylum in Canada,” Henry continues, “He was not a popular man but, unfortunately, he had a high profile. Yesterday, he was coming out of an exceptionally good tapas restaurant with his girlfriend when the assassin managed to slice Bonilla’s left common carotid without either him nor his girlfriend noticing. He was bleeding for about a minute before he finally collapsed.” 

“Cool,” Quentin mutters, unaware that he just said that out loud. He looks up to find all eyes on him. 

“His girlfriend, Alani Jimenez, fled the scene,” Henry continues, seemingly unfazed. He presents a picture of a young woman, clearly not yet thirty, in a very revealing, scarlet bathing suit. Quentin leans over to Julia. 

“Twenty bucks says the killer was over six feet tall,” he whispers. 

“I’m sorry,” interrupts Mr. Fogg. 

“Oh, nothing,” replies Quentin, embarrassed. 

“As I said,” Henry continues, “Ms. Jimenez fled. Authorities traced her here to the D.C. area. She was picked up near Dupont Circle this morn -” 

“Was there any CCTV of the killer,” Quentin interrupts. 

“No” replies Josh, “as far as we know, it was a blindspot.” 

“Now, I imagine the girl is quite traumatized,” says Henry. “So, lets handle her with care, shall we.” There’s a beat of silence. “Thank you for your time everyone.” Henry is quick to pack up his things and is close to getting out the door with Josh closely behind when Quentin suddenly speaks up. 

“I said the killer was probably over six feet,” he says. He is met with blank stares. “In order to make a slice like that so surreptitiously, the killer would need easy access to Bonillas neck, so he would have to be taller than he is.” There is an excruciating pause. 

“Thank you, Quentin,” Henry plainly states, before swiftly moving out the door. Quentin plops back down next to Julia. 

“He said “Quentin”,” Quentin says in a faux-braggadocious tone. Julia chuckles and rolls her eyes. 

“Come on,” she says, getting up, “let’s get this girl some security.” She takes another look at Alani’s photo. “And while we’re at it, let’s get her some clothes.”


	3. Magician

**NEW YORK CITY**

Magician sashays through the crowded streets of Manhattan, five shopping bags in hand. A successful spree after a successful mission. A quick, bumpy subway ride and he’s back home in Brooklyn, making his way to his apartment building, all tucked away. Nothing about his lifestyle must be too conspicuous. When he stops to check the mailbox, he notices his neighbor making his way down the stairs. He’s short, portly and practically ancient, a fact made evident by his struggle to keep his balance on the stairs. Magician cannot help himself… 

“Come on,” Magician says, turning to him and patting his knees, like one would with a child taking their first steps. “You can do it.” 

“Asshole,” says the man, but he says it with a smile. Magician smiles as well. This man has been his neighbor for as long as Magician can remember. They’ve never had a full conversation. The only moments they have spoken are like these, exchanging side-jabs. The man has a wicked sense of humor. Magician likes that. And he’s always there. Magician likes that even more. 

Up two flights of stairs, Magician is quick to take out his key and in an instant he’s dropped his bags on the floor and tossed his coat onto the couch. Magician’s not going to lie, he loves his apartment. It’s not showy, but it’s very chic and it has all the amenities he could hope for. An HDTV, an armoire filled to the brim with designer labels (as well as his tools for work) and his absolute favorite, a fridge stocked with the finest liquor this side of the Atlantic. 

Knowing he’s short on time, he quickly steals a bottle of Pinot Noir - he doesn’t even bother with a glass - takes a big slug before stripping out of his shirt and the stifling bullet-proof vest he’s not allowed to be outside without, and for good reason. He cannot be caught off guard at any moment. He allows the cool air to hit his bare chest for a moment as he searches for his favorite satin robe, which he quickly dons and sits in front of his dressing table. He examines himself in the mirror. He looks tired, the price of success. 

“But still gorgeous,” he thinks as he begins to powder his face into an unnaturally pale shade. He quickly rushes to the living room to dump a bottle of pills on the coffee before spreading himself out on the couch and does his best to keep his eyes only half-open. He hears the front door open and does his best to contain his giddiness. 

“Magician,” he hears Martin call. “Magician?” Martin enters the room and is unfazed at the sight of Magician’s “dead body”. 

“Magician,” he implores, but Magician won’t break the facade. “Magician, I can see you breathing.” 

“Bah,” screams Magician. Martin stumbles back with a cry of surprise. Magician is beside himself with laughter. 

“I got you,” he exclaims, running to embrace Martin. “Come on, I got you.”

“Fine, a little bit,” Martin relents. 

“Did you actually think I was dead,” asks Magician. Martin chuckles and shakes his head. 

“How was Toronto,” inquires Martin. 

“Good,” replies Magician. “Quick. I’m tired, though.” Martin nods in understanding. “Do you want to stay and watch a movie?” 

“No, I can't, I'm sorry,” Martin and Magician say at the same time. Magician rolls his eyes. Martin sighs exasperatedly, aware he’s given that answer too many times. “But, they wanted me to give you this,” Martin says, producing a large wad of cash and holding it in Magician’s direction. 

“A bonus,” Magician says, surprised. Martin nods. “Because I am sensational,” Magician asks, only half-facetiously. 

“Oh, yes,” Martin replies, throwing him a bone. “And… they want you to do another job.” 

“When”, Magician says. 

“I know it’s a quick turn-around,” Martin says, “tomorrow.” He then hands Magician a postcard - “Jalisco, Mexico”, it says. “All the information is on there.” 

“Sure,” Magician says. 

“Jalisco’s beautiful this time of year,” Martin says, hoping to lighten the load. 

“Do you want to come?” Magician would never admit this, but jobs get boring all alone.

“No,” Martin states plainly. 

“Well, can I take someone else?” 

“You know the answer to that.” 

“I just want someone to play with,” Magician complains. 

“You play in Jalisco,” Martin bids him as he heads out the door, “and we will watch a movie when you get back.”   
“You don’t mean that,” they say again in unison. Martin can pull that move as well. Magician chuckles slightly at this. 

Magician quickly props open his laptop, in which his work database is always open. Magician flips the postcard over and instantly spots the access code: R008H77102986. Immediately upon entering this, Magician is presented with photos of an elderly latin man. Ignacio Garcia, aged 67, crime syndicate leader. 

“Aw,” Magician says, noticing the man’s kind smile. “Nice face.”


	4. Quentin

Quentin mulls over that morning’s meeting while waiting for the teapot to finish brewing. His stomach is still doing somersaults, having not quite gotten over his hangover. Walking back to his desk, Quentin feels another surge of pain in his forehead, which he instantly clutches. Margo notes this and produces a small black capsule, before placing it in Quentin’s hand. 

“What is it?” Quentin is confused. 

“I told you, it’s coal,” Margo replies. 

“Will it hurt?” The thought of ingesting coal isn’t exactly appetizing for Quentin. 

“No, it just strips your stomach so you can’t feel anything,” Margo says as if it’s nothing. 

“Alright,” Quentin relents. “Anything to get rid of the hangover,” he thinks. He then directs their attention back to the security request forms. “Okay, so this girl’s name is Alani Jimenez and we’re going to want two officers on each shift,” Quentin dictates before placing the coal into his mouth and taking a big gulp of tea to send it down. He’s caught a little of the taste on its way down. “Oh, Jesus, that’s gross,” Quentin gags. “Where do they want her overnight?” 

“Don’t know,” Margo replies, “they haven’t transferred her from the station yet.” Quentin instantly perks up at this. 

“Really, Dupont Circle?” 

“Mm-hmm,” Margo answers. 

“So she’s still there,” Quentin asks, trying to sound as flippant as possible. 

“Yeah, and apparently, she’s a bit of a character,” Margo replies. 

“This is my chance,” Quentin thinks. “You know what,” he says aloud, “I think I’ll- I think I’ll pop down there quickly.”  
“Why?”

“No reason,” Quentin cavalierly replies, “just get those officers assigned to her and I’ll sign off.” Julia suddenly appears in the doorway. 

“Did we sing Queen last night,” she asks, clearly hoping the answer will be “no”. 

“Yes,” Quentin replies, cringing at the thought alongside her. Margo cannot contain her giggling. 

“Damn,” Julia curses. She then notices Quentin is putting on his coat. “Where are you going?” 

“To the bathroom,” Quentin lies. 

“Done the report,” Julia asks. Quentin nods. “Good,” she says before extending her palm. “Now… cough up.” Quentin is perplexed. 

“What?” 

“Twenty bucks,” Julia replies. “The CCTV turned up from Toronto. It was a woman, no taller than five-foot-seven.” 

“Wait, since the meeting,” Quentin cannot believe what he’s hearing. 

“Yeah,” Julia says, “Josh just said.”  
“No, he said there wasn’t any-” 

“Twenty bucks,” Julia demands. 

“Have you seen it?” Quentin is very suspicious. 

“Of course not!” 

“Why not?!”  
“Stop it,” Julia orders, clearly annoyed. “There’s a difference between thinking it was a six-foot man and wanting it to be a six-foot man.” 

Quentin sighs and slaps a ten-dollar bill into her hand. “You get the rest when I see the tape.” 

“I’m going to try to throw up,” Julia says, heading for the door, “I suggest you do, too.” 

“I want to see that CCTV,” Quentin calls after her. 

“What was that about,” Margo pipes up. 

“Nothing,” Quentin dismisses, grabbing his bag. “I’m going to the station.” 

“Why,” Margo asks. 

“Just… don’t tell Julia,” Quentin pleads. “You’re the best! You’re amazing! Goodbye,” Quentin shouts to her as he dashes out the door. 

***

“Ustedes cerdos,” a clearly inebriated Alani proclaims, “todos ustedes son pollas.” She’s repeated this sentiment for at least five minutes, coughing and giggling all the while. Quentin stares at her blankly from across the table. 

“I’m sorry. She’s unintelligible,” apologizes Esteban, an FBI translator Quentin borrowed on his way out. “She’s mostly swearing.” 

“That’s alright,” Quentin says, “she’s had a hell of a night. I just need to know if she’s aware of anyone who might want to harm her while she’s in the country.” 

“Crees que alguien te está amenazando en este país, alguien que quiere hacerte daño,” Esteban asks. Alani just wails at this question. 

“Poor thing,” Quentin says, turning to the officer at the door, “Maxine, could you get her a tea?” Maxine nods and is off. Quentin turns back to see Alani is still babbling nonsense. 

“Has she mentioned Toronto or anything about her boyfriend’s killer,” Quentin asks Esteban, as Alani starts to slur an unintelligible song. 

“I think she’s saying they were drunk,” replies Esteban, “or she’s drunk now. She also mentioned a giraffe.” They exchange confused looks. “God, I’m sorry,” apologizes Esteban. 

“That’s alright,” assures Quentin, “ask her if it was a man or a woman.”

“Era un hombre o una mujer,” Esteban asks. Alani starts laughing again. 

“Una girafa blanco,” Alani shouts, “guaperas psicotico!” Esteban is stumped.

“Does anyone at the bureau speak heroin Spanish,” Quentin asks.. Esteban gives out a light laugh. “No, I’m being serious.” Maxine suddenly reenters the room with a steaming cup of tea, setting it in front of Alani. 

“You know what, Maxine, we need to get her to a facility,” Quentin dictates, getting up. He stares Alani square in the face. “Mete tu culo en la cama.” 

Esteban’s eyes widen. “You speak Spanish?” 

“No,” Quentin corrects, “but my wife does. I just picked up a couple phrases.” 

“What did he say,” Maxine asks Esteban. Esteban chuckles. 

“Get your ass into bed.”  
Quentin nods to them both before exiting the room. Once out, he discreetly moves his hand into his bag, pulling out a small recording device and pressing play to make sure it caught the whole interrogation. 

***

Quentin enters the community hall to see tables full of people playing cards. It looks like Alice’s senior citizen bridge party turned out to be quite a success - the open bar must’ve really helped. Scanning the room, Quentin soon spots Alice’s platinum blonde hair at a table in the far corner. She’s playing and apparently engaged in a spirited conversation with an older-looking black man. Quentin moves over to the end of the room, opposite to her table, pulls out his phone and texts: _You’d better not be flirting. ;)_

He watches as Alice notices the buzzing from her phone and checks the message. She looks up and gives him a goofy smile, which makes him giggle. She’s quickly out her seat and walks toward him, greeting him with a hug. 

“I thought you’d go straight home to bed,” she says. 

“No,” Quentin laughs, “I’m soldiering through. This looks like quite a success.” 

“Yes,” Alice beams. “Do you want to play?” 

“With a gin and tonic? Of course,” Quentin exclaims. Alice is about to go order the drinks when Quentin stops her. “Actually, I was hoping to borrow Dominica,” he says, motioning to the teenage latina girl in the chair opposite from Alice’s. One her prize Physics students. 

“Oh,” says Alice, suggestively, “should I be jealous.” Quentin snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her close. 

“Always be jealous,” he insists, wiggling his eyebrows. This sends them both into a fit of giggles. “Don’t worry, I need you, too,” he clarifies. Alice quickly steals Dominica and rejoins Quentin, who sits all three of them on a couch at the end of the room. He then produces the recording and a set of earphones, giving one to both Alice and Dominica. He presses “play” and watches as both women’s eyes widen with surprise. 

“Wow,” says Alice, “she’s really flying high.” Dominica nods in agreement. 

“The translator couldn’t get anything clear out of her,” Quentin says. “Do you recognize anything, Dominica? Could it be teenage Spanish?” 

“What do you need,” Dominica asks. 

“Just the description of the person she saw while she was on the street,” replies Quentin. 

“Alright, here we go,” Alice says. “Okay, so it was someone pale and…” suddenly she begins to chuckle. 

“If I say to you “girafa guaperas”, she asks Dominica, “what does that mean?” Dominica can’t help but chuckle as well. 

“Wow, okay,” Dominica says. 

“What is it,” Quentin demands. 

“So, “girafa” - literally “giraffe” - is another way of saying tall,” Dominica explains, “and “guaperas” means “hunk”. A hot guy.” Ever the teenage girl, she can’t help but giggle. 

“Yeah,” Alice interjects, “this girl is using slang your translator wouldn’t be familiar with. So apparently your killer was a sexy, pale and tall psychotic man.” 

Quentin, too overcome with excitement, cups his wife’s face in his hands and presses a fiery, passionate kiss to her lips. He quickly gives Dominica a small kiss on the forehead before dashing out of the building, leaving both women absolutely stunned. 

Once out on the sidewalk, Quentin quickly dials the office. 

“Hello,” he hears Margo answer. 

“Ugh, thank God, I was counting on you not having a life,” Quentin gratefully exclaims. “Wait, why are you still at the office?” 

“My friend Fen and her asshole baby are staying with me while she goes for job interviews,” Margo groans. “Honestly, I’ll get more sleep here. What do you need?” 

“Can you pull Michael Polson from the registry and any other active Caucasian male assassins under the age of forty-five?” 

“Okay, hold on,” Margo replies. He can hear the click-clacking of her computer. “I’ve got Michael.” 

“How tall is he,” Quentin asks. 

“Alright, I know you’re into assassins, but I won’t let you objectify them,” Margo jests. “They’re people too, you know?” 

“Margo,” Quentin impores. 

“Five-foot-five, he’s five-foot-five. Is that doing it for you,” she quips. 

“Thank you,” says Quentin. “Are there any others on file?”

“Let me just check,” Margo replies. “Okay, we’ve got two; Viktor Voltrinski and Willy Helmsen.” 

“Damn,” Quentin curses, “they’re both dead. Are there any alerts out for new ones?” 

“Nope”  
“Okay,” says Quentin, “thanks. Oh, and don’t tell anyone I asked for that.” 

“Of course,” Margo japes. “All of our hotlines are completely confidential, sir.” 

“Fuck off,” says Quentin, smirking. “Thank you.” 

“Anytime,” replies Margo, hanging up.


	5. Magician

**JALISCO**

“Martin wasn’t lying,” Magician thinks, “Jalisco is beautiful this time of year.” The sky is a brilliant blue - not a cloud in sight - crops in the fields are beginning to bloom and the sun enlights the exquisite Spanish architecture of this area in the most alluring way. Magician drinks in these sites as he barrels down the carretera on a rented motorcycle. Hands down his favorite mode of transportation, he takes every opportunity he can to practice his motorbike skills. 

It isn’t long before he spots the villa he saw in his briefing. Careful to park a safe distance away, Magician chooses a lovely spot in the shade, roughly one hundred and fifty yards away from the villa. There he pulls out his binoculars and a container of tortas ahogada he picked up in Guadalajara. He’s never one to do a job on an empty stomach. Munching on the delectable spicy pork, Magician eyes the house through the binoculars, noting a rather relaxed approach to security.

Licking his fingers, Magician dips his hands into his motorcycle’s side basket, pulling out a black haberdasher’s kit and producing a silver, exquisitely decorated suit pin. Magician promptly slips the pin into his lapel, makes sure he has his handgun - which, ironically, is purely decorative for this mission - and makes a light jog towards the villa. 

Not a moment too soon does he approach the gate, which, for some reason, is unlocked, and notice two armed guards around a corner of the house. Magician hesitates for a moment and gathers his bearings. He notices a pipe running along the side of the house. Deeming it sturdy enough to support his weight, Magician surreptitiously dashes across the driveway, careful not to make a lot of noise, before quickly grabbing hold of the pipe and beginning to climb, his feet held firmly against the wall. Magician always knows to wear his rubber-soled shoes - fashionable, but durable, capable of weathering any terrain. He pulls himself onto the roof and in no time, he’s through a side window and inside the house.

Beginning his search for his target, Magician is unpleasantly surprised to discover the house is empty, save for a few armed goons milling about. Magician quickly ducks into another room to avoid said goons when he suddenly hears a noise coming from outside. He carefully walks towards the window to peak. He sees people - a bunch of people - talking, drinking, dancing - and a bunch of rambunctious little boys running around with water guns. “Damn”, Magician thinks, “a party.” His hopes for a quick, easy kill are instantly dashed. He can’t even make out his target through this crowd. Seeing no alternative, Magician stashes his gun and quietly makes his way downstairs.

*** 

Magician is able to think clearly once he is outside among the party guests. He finds the setting quite alluring, actually. He hasn’t been to a party like this since, well, ever. The music is engaging and the people appear to be quite charming. A few of the guests smile at him, to which he smiles back. Magician is almost seduced when he spots his target, Ignacio. He’s shorter in person. “That’s handy,” Magician thinks, but he cannot approach him in front of all of these guests. That’s when he notices one of the little boys run up to Ignacio. 

“Abuelo,” the boy calls. Ignacio turns his attention to the boy, who quickly pulls his water gun out and splashes straight at his face. “Little shit,” Magician thinks, but Ignacio simply laughs. He then, however, reaches towards a wine-chilling bucket, removes the wine bottle and dumps the freezing water square onto the boy's head. The guests cannot contain their laughter and Ignacio thinks his joke , but the boy isn’t as receptive. His little face contorted in anger, he begins to storm off. 

“Ay, Antonio,” Ignacio calls after him. “Lo siento, lo siento.” But Antonio will have none of it. 

“No,” Antonio shouts, “Eres horrible! Te recuperare por esto!” With that threat, Antonio rushes back into the house. Watching this exchange gives Magician an idea and he covertly follows Antonio. He quickly finds the boy in an upstairs bathroom, furiously attempting to dry his hair. 

“Vi lo que te hizo allá afuera,” Magician says, grabbing Antonio's attention. “Que gilipollas,” he says with a grin. Antonio giggles at this, no doubt excited to hear a curse word. 

“Si,” he says. “El es un imbécil. Se merece pagar por eso.” 

“Quieres jugarle una broma,” Magician offers. Antonio smiles and nods excitedly. 

*** 

Magician instructs Antonio to stand in front of a window, and after a signal from Magician, leans his head out the window. 

“Abuelo,” Antonio calls. “Abuelo!” Magician hears Ignacio call back. 

“Espera, Antonio, solo necesito termina-” 

“No,” Antonio exclaims, “ven aqui ahora! Tengo algo para ti!” 

“Bien, bien,” Ignacio relents. Magician hears Ignacio give an apology to his guests before rushing over to Antonio. 

“Muy bien, ahora te escondes ahi,” Magician says, pointing to the next room. “Entonces esperas para saltar y asustarlo.” Antonio is so giddy, Magician almost regrets what he's going to do to this kid’s grandpa. As soon as Antonio is hidden in the next room, Magician quickly reattaches the gun holster to his belt and strategically positions himself in the hallway as a milling security officer, just as Ignacio is coming up the stairs. He’s quick to notice Magician. 

“Ah hola,” he greets, rather warmly. “Has visto a un niño por aquí?” 

“Creo que lo he visto aquí,” Magician motions to the room. Ignacio walks in and Magician follows. 

“Eres nuevo, no?” Ignacio’s question surprises Magician a little. He nods. 

“Estoy muy agradecido de estar aquí.” Magician knows ingratiating himself will get Ignacio to lower his guard. Seeking to lower it further, Magician turns his attention to the exquisite tarp adoring the room’s sofa. 

“Este es absolutamente hermoso,” Magician croons, running his hand over the soft fabric. 

“Ah,” Ignacio, exclaims beaming with pride. “Es muy hermoso. Remigo Mestas.” 

“Que?”

“El diseñador. Solo trabajar con los mejores textiles.” Magician is now genuinely intrigued but, more importantly, he and Ignacio are now face-to-face; right where Magician needs him. He can’t lie, he enjoys when he has to lure this prey into place. 

“Aprecio buenas decoraciones,” Magician says, subtly moving his hand towards his silver suit pin, “por muebles y ropa.” As fast as lightning, Magician wips the suit pin out from his lapel to jam it into Ignacio’s right eye. Ignacio’s face contorts in anguish, but he is unable to make noise. The agony has only just begun, however, as Magician presses the release button on the back of the suit pin, sending the toxic nerve agent stored inside gushing through Ignacio’s optic nerve to his bloodstream. 

Ignacio falls to his knees, throbbing and unable to take his eyes off Magician, who quickly moves to a nearby desk, grabbing a pen and writing “Remigo Mestas” on his palm. He really wants a tarp like that for his apartment. Ignacio takes one last labored breath of air before collapsing onto his side. Satisfied, Magician makes a quick break for the window in the next room, hesitating momentarily to listen for Antonio’s shriek at the discovery of his beloved Abuelo dead on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you who are still reading, a thousand apologies for the appalling amount of time it took me to write a single friggin' chapter. Also, leave me a note in the comment section those who need translations for the Spanish.


End file.
